One has a Norman Rockwell profile dominated by a straight and narrow nose. Her skin is an anxious pink, with no makeup. Her white crocheted sweater, dark jeans, and “old faithful” black leather purse scream practicality. Streaks of white announce themselves at her temples, shrilly interrupting her fading strawberry blond waves. She is doing a crossword puzzle on her smartphone, and as she extends her arm to adjust her focus on the screen I glimpse a 3-inch scar running down the inside of her left wrist. Her eyes meet mine and tell me to stop staring, because it’s rude.

The second one is 50 pages into a massive tome on maritime law and is wondering why exactly she decided on law school. Her engagement ring flashes as she slams the book shut. The ring is the only bright thing about her. Rippling through the bottom of her heart is a dark undercurrent of doubt over whether any of it was a good idea – the law degree, the wedding. But she has gone into so much debt for them both by now that, rather than deal with the shame of backing out of either, she says “Damn the torpedoes” and keeps going.

The third one, the girl in the newsie cap, is staring at me so much that it makes me uncomfortable. Have we met before? Is there something on my face? I haven’t worked out any explanation by the time I disembark at Farragut West.

Some days the train is full of satisfaction and rest, and some days it’s all toil and trouble.